The music from the dance floor thumped faintly through the walls. This room was shielded from the crowd, yet that was precisely what made it dangerous. The air felt heavier here, like a storm waiting to erupt.
The moment Damian shut the door, Nayla's breath hitched. The click of the lock sounded like the final hammer that nailed her to hell. There was no turning back. No space for hesitation. Just the two of them, and the sin waiting to be devoured.
"Sit," Damian commanded.
Nayla didn't answer. She just stared at him, at something she should have resisted but found too exquisite to deny. He was dangerously tempting, and somehow, that made him all the more lethal.
"Nayla Moretti," Damian murmured, his voice hoarse with heat.
That Italian-blooded man stepped forward slowly. His calmness felt suffocating, as if each step was tightening a noose. The closer he came, the less Nayla could breathe.
Broad-shouldered, with a defined jawline and tousled dark hair, Damian looked like he belonged to a world untouched by time. Alluring, but untouchable. Even the night breeze might hesitate to linger on his skin too long.
His hazel eyes locked on Nayla's warm brown gaze. There was an innate arrogance in the way he moved, the kind only men who knew their power possessed. He knew exactly what a single touch could do to any woman.
"You could've said no when I brought you here," Damian said, voice low. "But you chose to give in, Nayla."
"I just wanted us to talk," she answered, eyes drifting to the window. "If I recall correctly, you once offered me an ear."
"But this room doesn't deal in words, Nay," Damian whispered. "And you knew that."
Outside, the humid Bali air slipped past the walls. But inside, the heat shifted. It was no longer about weather. It was about skin. About warmth born not of sun, but of something darker. Something burning from within.
"And you know what stepping into this room means," he added.
Her hands trembled. Not from fear, but from betrayal. Her own body had turned against her. For too long, she'd been starving for something she couldn't name.
She wanted to be undone. Torn from the illusion. To be reminded she was still alive, even if it was the wrong way.
Then suddenly, their lips collided. No preamble, no pause. Rough, demanding, relentless. It wasn't a kiss. It was a war. A battle of who was more broken and who needed more.
Damian's lips crashed against hers with no trace of tenderness. His hand cupped her jaw, leaving no room to escape. As her mouth parted, his tongue demanded entrance. Deep, deliberate, dominant.
One hand held her face with firm control. The other roamed. Memorizing, as he already knew her body, despite never having touched it before.
Their breaths tangled, stealing from one another. But Damian dictated the pace. There was no softness. No sweetness. Only raw, blistering heat.
He shoved her against the wall, crowding her space, consuming her. Nayla gasped. Her chest heaving as she felt every inch of his hardened form pressing in. In that moment, she understood that Damian wasn't an adversary. He was a storm, and storms don't negotiate.
"Damian, stop it!"
Her voice was breathless, half resistance, half surrender. But Damian didn't live on commands. He thrived on instinct. And tonight, his instincts knew only one direction, forward.
Without a word, his hand slid behind her head, fingers tangling in her hair. One sharp tug and her head snapped back.
"Damian!" she cried.
Her neck arched under the pressure. Pain tingled across her scalp. And yet, whether foolish or drunk at the moment, she didn't fight back.
Her eyes locked on the dim ceiling above. The amber light from the industrial chandelier cast shadows on the wall, shadows of two bodies in collision. Her mind splintered. Yet the image of her silhouette beneath Damian's towering frame was hauntingly beautiful.
"Nayla." His lips hovered at her neck, voice a dark whisper, thick with heat. "Don't ask me to stop when your body's begging for more."
Her breath caught as his hands, lips, and body claimed her. The air burned hotter. Every touch was deeper and rougher. His large hands mapped her body like a man who'd studied it for years.
His mouth slid from her neck to her shoulder, leaving a trail of wet, possessive kisses. Nayla shivered. Not out of fear, but because surrender was arriving faster than her willpower could stop it.
"Look at me, Nayla. I want you to remember who owns you now."
His fingers gripped her waist, yanking her closer. Their breaths tangled, disordered. There was no softness tonight. No denial. Just the nakedness of want that had long outgrown shame.
"You're mine," Damian murmured.
The next kiss came like a storm. Damian kissed like a man who wanted to break and save her in the same breath. As if her body was a cathedral of sins, and he was the inferno come to burn it down.
"You're not running tonight. Not from this. Not from me."
With calm cruelty, he reached behind her and unfastened her dress. The sound of unraveling fabric echoed softly, followed by the exposure of her skin to the room's rising heat.
"Look how your body answers to me," Damian growled, voice dark and low.
"No! Stop it!"
"Too late."
Damian carelessly tossed her dress aside, leaving Nayla's body half-naked. For a moment, his eyes darted to the swell of her breasts, before his fingers returned to her skin. Nayla's body was too beautiful to ignore for long.
Every touch was rough but deliberate. He moved with precision, as though every inch of her had already been claimed in some other realm. His lips reached her nape. He growled quietly like an animal marking territory.
"Are you insane?!" Nayla snapped.
Nayla pushed Damian away and turned, managing two steps to distance herself. She seemed to be fleeing, yet in truth, she didn't genuinely wish to escape. Her legs moved only to be re-imprisoned by Damian. Indeed, she froze in place once more as Damian managed to pull her back into his grasp.
"You like playing with fire, Nayla," he rasped into her ear. Then his mouth descended to her spine, kissing each vertebrae like a ritual. "Now feel what it's like to burn."
From behind, Damian's hand seized both of Nayla's wrists, locking them. Nayla's body arched. Still struggling to break free, she began to writhe. Perversely, each movement only invited more, consuming her last vestiges of sanity.
With a decisive move, Damian spun Nayla around. The moment they faced each other, Nayla was swiftly propelled forward, her hips meeting the cold, unforgiving surface of the table. The soft thud of expensive wood echoed in the room, yet it was drowned out by the frantic drumming of Nayla's heart.
That man's large hand swiftly moved to her lower back. He pressed, held, and manipulated Nayla's body into position, granting her no time to even form a thought. Damian's touch further eroded Nayla's composure. Succumbing, she finally melted and sank down.
"Please, no," Nayla whispered, and her eyes betraying the opposite of her plea.
The table was quite tall. Just right to create a perfect alignment between their bodies. And yes, the imbalance of it all made Nayla tremble even more.
"Tell me to stop, Nayla… and I won't."
Nayla said nothing more. She could only scream as Damian abruptly spun her around. Her flushed cheek met the cool edge of the table.
With practiced ease, Damian unzipped his own trousers then pressed his hardened self against the juncture of Nayla's thighs. Nayla's chest pressed into the table, her back arched, and her breathing became erratic.
She knew this was wrong. She knew this was madness. Yet, her body couldn't stop trembling, craving something more.
"Damian!"
Damian bent forward. His lips brushed Nayla's ear before he placed a soft kiss there. Without warning, he finally pushed himself in.
"Fuck! Damian!"
"Say my name again," he murmured. "I want to hear it when you fall apart."
Nayla opened her mouth, but only a groan escaped. The sound made Damian grin faintly, a sharp, satisfied, almost cruel pull of his lips.
Both their breaths were ragged now. The room felt too small to contain the wild, nameless desire. For a few moments, nothing remained but the creaking of the table and the sounds of sickening… yet addictive… moans.
"Every sound you make is mine, Nayla. Every breath, every tremble, everything is mine."
Damian moved with a relentless rhythm. He even tugged fiercely at Nayla's hair each time their bodies joined. Drops of sweat had truly mingled in a symphony of sin that could not be undone.
Damian didn't make love.
He claimed. He devoured. He destroyed.
Who knew how long they exchanged these fiery embers until Nayla's body finally trembled. Undeniably, what she felt was absolute pleasure. Moments later, her consciousness slowly faded to a mere wisp.
On the blurred line between wakefulness and unconsciousness, only two names echoed in her mind.
Nathan, the man who shattered her heart.
And Damian, the man who was now shattering her body.
Damian Bellucci. He was a black hole with no exit. And Nayla? She was already swallowed whole. But the darkest part of her… was enjoying it.
Adrian was right. She was killing herself.
Tonight, Nayla had sold her soul.
And Damian bought it, without mercy.